


gentlemen, start your engines

by FullmetalChords



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drag Queens, M/M, RPDR AU, Reality TV, RuPaul's Drag Race References, flirtation via makeup contouring, like a lot of them, lip sync for your LOVE, now good luck... and don't fuck it up yuuri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-04-08 17:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14110584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullmetalChords/pseuds/FullmetalChords
Summary: "...and may the best woman win!"Yuuri Katsuki, under his drag alter ego Aisu Minxx, is competing in RuPaul's Drag Race. He has the skill to bring the house down boots, but thanks to his anxiety, it's taking everything in his power not to be told to "sashay away".But everything is about to change once he's asked to make over his crush, Cute Pit Crew Member Victor, into his drag daughter. What could go wrong?(A RuPaul's Drag Race AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleLostStar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostStar/gifts).



> This fic is a very belated birthday present for Star, who turned mumblety-number back in January. Star, I watched all 12 seasons of Drag Race for you so I could get this fic up to my standards re: accuracy, and I regret NOTHING. 
> 
> Protip: Most of the characters in this fic are referred to mainly by their drag names, which can get confusing; but as a hint, many (but not all) of them have drag names based off of their program music in YOI. If you still have trouble figuring it out, I have put everyone's real identities in the end notes, along with notes about where their names came from. Right off the bat, though, I'll let you know that Yuuri is "Aisu Minxx".
> 
> Also, as a heads-up, the drag queens use the pronoun "she" when referring to each other because that's good drag etiquette, but Yuuri uses "he" to refer to himself in his POV sections. The role of trans women in the drag community is a hot-button issue for some, but that's not an issue that I, as a cis woman who's new to the world of drag, feel comfortable fully tackling in this fic.

There is a message written on the mirror in bright red lipstick when the drag queens reenter RuPaul’s infamous Werk Room.

 

> _bye  
>  _ _-alma vivo_

“She always was a woman of few words,” sighs Hope Partizan, pressing a hand to her gigantic breastplate. It’s been tradition, in the long history of _RuPaul’s Drag Race_ , for the most recently eliminated queen to leave her last words on the mirror for her competitors to see; Alma Vivo, the Instagram-famous queen who had killer high-fashion runway looks but was unable to bust past her reserved nature, has evidently been terse to the end.

The other queens _aww_ sadly over the message, upset to see the latest one of their friends leave. The only one who remains silent is Aisu Minxx, the queen indirectly responsible for sending Alma home in their lip sync battle. Wordlessly, she picks up the spray bottle to wipe away Alma’s last words to them.

“Damn, Aisu,” Furiosa Tigre remarks as they all begin to de-drag. “Fourth lip sync in a row. Are you planning on putting in any work at all for the main challenges, or just hoping you can lip-sync your way to the crown?”

A chorus of “oohs” rings out, and Aisu freezes at her mirror, having removed only one set of false eyelashes. Sierra Incognita is the first to respond, looking in the offending queen’s direction with an almost bored expression.

“You know, Furiosa, you talk real big for someone who’s only been doing drag for six months.”

More “oohs” echo around the room as Sierra begins unpinning her wig, calm as anything.

Furiosa Tigre, meanwhile, is livid. “Look, I may not have been doing this as long as _some_ of you—“

“Is that a read?” Carabosse wonders aloud, as the oldest queen left in the competition. Some of the others in the room, particularly Hope, gleefully take this interruption as an excuse to dog pile on the season’s resident ingenue.

“You coming for any of us with that cheap-ass wig on your head, Furry-osa?”

“Go on back to preschool now, baby queen!”

“This ain’t RuPaul’s School for Girls!”

Sierra, meanwhile, takes advantage of the chaos to slip over to Aisu’s side, where her friend is beginning to scrub away the layers of foundation caked onto her face.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Yuuri,” Sierra says under her breath, so the other queens and cameras might not hear, “but I can see where Furiosa’s coming from.”

Aisu turns to her, shocked. With half her face bare and the other still full of makeup, fake lashes and all, the effect is somewhat comical.

“Not that you haven’t been working hard!” Sierra adds hastily. “I know better than anyone what you can bring to the table. I just… know you’ve really been struggling since we got here. I mean, what on earth possessed you to impersonate Kristy Yamaguchi for the Snatch Game?”

“It… seemed like a good idea at the time,” Aisu replies, halting. Her Adam’s apple bobs.

“You were going to do Marlene! You would have _slayed_ as Marlene Dietrich!”

“I know,” Aisu says, covering her face with her hands. “I got cold feet, Phichit. What do you want me to say?”

“And that performance in the hospital drama pilot?” Sierra’s face is sympathetic. “I know for a _fact_ you had your lines memorized. We practiced all the night before. Then the cameras turned on, and you just…”

“I choked.” Aisu tugs her wig off, and Sierra’s jaw snaps shut. “I’m sorry. I… I know I can do better than this, it’s just…”

She looks over her shoulder at the other queens, her eyes full of anxiety.

“I’m so fucking scared of failing here,” she says to Sierra, her voice dropping even further. “I’m letting you down, letting Ciao Ciao down…”

“Hey,” Sierra says gently, putting a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You’ve never, ever let me down. Or her, either. You’ve just got to go out there next time and show everyone what a fierce queen Aisu Minxx can be.” Aisu sniffles a little, and Sierra makes a sympathetic noise. “C’mere, Icy.”

She pulls her sister into a hug, and Aisu clings to her.

“Haus of Ciao Ciao forever?” she says, her voice muffled against Sierra’s shoulder.

“Haus of Ciao Ciao forever.” Sierra releases Aisu, giving her a determined grin. “Now don’t let me catch you in the bottom for a fifth time, babe. It’s starting to piss me off.”

There’s no anger in her voice; it’s a simple, lighthearted rib between longtime friends. Aisu offers her a smile.

“You won’t,” she says, and she’s determined to make her words true.

It’s incredibly unlikely she’ll survive a fifth lip sync, after all.

—

Sierra Incognita seems much smaller in his interview with the producers; his face is bare of the geometric, doll-like makeup that makes up Sierra’s signature look. But he still has an undeniable presence on camera, even in a snapback and plain black tank top.

“Aisu’s my sister in every possible way,” he informs the viewing public. “We started drag together, we worked the same club circuit in Detroit, we have the same drag mother.”

As he talks in voiceover, the camera shows an old Polaroid of Sierra and Aisu at a club, arm in arm with Serena Ciao Ciao, an older queen who competed on _Drag Race_ several seasons ago.

“This might be a competition,” Sierra continues in voiceover, “but Aisu is family. It’s killing me to see her in the bottom so often.

“But if she doesn’t snap out of it soon, she’s going to fall.”

—

Before they even have time to catch their breath after Alma’s elimination, the next challenge is upon them.

“For today’s maxi challenge, I’m going to need a little help.” The eponymous host clears his throat. “Oh, Pit Crewwwwww!”

RuPaul’s summons makes Yuuri perk up for a moment, as it always does. This competition has had him feeling defeated almost since he arrived. He knows he’s outclassed here — he can’t do genderfuck like Anna Stasis, he doesn’t have Hope’s charisma, he’s not glamorous like Michele, he doesn’t have Intoxicunt’s body, he isn’t beautiful like Furiosa, he doesn’t have the iconic looks that Carabosse or Sierra do…

…But when hot men in their underwear are paraded in front of him on a daily basis, usually bearing some sort of alcoholic beverage, Yuuri can forget his insecurities, if only for a moment.

Of all the muscular, barely-clothed men in the “Pit Crew,” the series’s resident eye candy, one member has caught his attention from day one. Those gorgeous blue eyes, that sculpted waist, that ass that looks like it was made to fit in Yuuri’s hands… Yuuri might be sent home tomorrow, but those sweet memories of Cute Pit Crew Member Victor will be enough to soothe the sting of losing out on $100,000.

…Or. Well. They’ll be _some_ comfort, at least.

Usually when the Pit Crew is summoned, they’re carrying props of some kind, or bearing a guest judge in on a palanquin, or at least holding tasty Absolut Vodka cocktails for the queens to drink on camera. But today, their hands are empty as they stand at parade rest in front of the queens. What’s more, there are more of them than usual — eight, to be exact, standing opposite the eight remaining queens.

“You all know our Pit Crew,” RuPaul says with a sly grin, and indeed, Intoxicunt, Sierra, and Anna all begin barking as if on cue. “Well, today, you’ll be working rather… _intimately_ with them, as you induct them into your drag families.”

“Oh god,” Yuuri says aloud, reflexively. That didn’t mean…

“That’s right!” RuPaul looks gleeful. “Today, you’ll be giving one lucky member of our Pit Crew a drag makeover.”

The queens almost immediately begin hooting and catcalling, while the Pit Crew members laugh gamely.

“Hashtag, #pitcrewbettawork!”

Yuuri’s eyes stray almost automatically to Victor where he stands at the end of the row. One of his eyes twitches — it looks like a wink, but must be some kind of eye spasm. Yuuri hurriedly looks away before he gets caught staring.

“Now, our boys are _well_ acquainted with you by now.” The Pit Crew members chuckle again, shuffling back and forth on their bare feet. “So they’ve already decided which queen they want to work with. Boys?”

“I’ve chosen to work with Toxie,” says the Pit Crew member on the far end, who has shoulder-length brown hair. Intoxicunt — or Toxie as she’s known on basic cable — claps with glee, going over to hug her new partner.

“I’ve picked Furiosa,” says the one next in line, the dark and mysterious one with the undercut. Furiosa saunters over to him, the competitive light in her eyes already burning.

And so on down the line. Yuuri can feel himself holding his breath, because there’s no way he’d be lucky enough to be chosen by Victor. Compared to the other girls here, he’s so plain, so ordinary. He hasn’t got the charisma of some of the others, he’s probably going to be stuck with that Pit Crew Member with the hairy chest and massive beard, he’s going to—

“I choose Aisu Minxx,” Victor says clearly when it’s his turn, and it’s a miracle Yuuri’s knees don’t give way. “Of _course_.”

This time it’s _clearly_ a wink. Yuuri can’t help but fan himself with his hand.

“Okay,” he says faintly, staggering over to Victor’s side as the other queens laugh at him.

Yeah. Someone up there either really likes him, or really hates him.

—

“Aisu’s crush on Victor is _so_ obvious,” Carabosse tells the cameras in an aside. Even out of full drag, she has a line of purple eyeshadow that almost extends to her brows, giving a dramatic look. “Almost as obvious as Victor’s crush on Aisu.”

—

“This couldn’t have worked out better if I’d planned it myself,” Toxie says in her own interview. “It’s bad enough when Victor is around for, like, a few minutes. But _all day_? In the Werk Room? In his Andrew Christians?”

The show helpfully provides a shot of Victor’s bulging crotch, the designer name “Andrew Christian” clearly printed on the waistband of the briefs.

“Oh, _gurl_.”

—

“If those two can make it through the entire day without fucking, it’ll be a miracle,” Furiosa Tigre deadpans into the camera. As usual, she looks irritated. “But hey, whatever it takes to make Aisu finally sashay her ass out of here.”

—

Contrary to what Victor had hoped, the Pit Crew members do not actually spend the entire day learning how to be drag queens while wearing nothing but their uniform briefs. It’s disappointing, really. How is Victor ever going to sweep Aisu Minxx off her feet if he can’t show the queen what he’s working with?

Still, the tank top and yoga capri pants he puts on over his sponsored underwear show off his arms and quads in a sufficiently flattering way, and when he sashays over to Aisu’s work bench, he thinks he can see his new mentor flush.

“So, Victor,” Aisu asks him. She’s somehow even more beautiful out of drag, fluffy dark hair framing a sweet round face, deep brown eyes blinking at Victor from behind modern blue glasses. “Tell me… erm… Who are some of your biggest diva inspirations?”

“Beyonce,” Victor says reflexively, then stops himself from saying more. “But enough about me. Let’s talk about _you_.”

Aisu blinks. “M-me?”

The queen shouldn’t look so surprised. Not when they’ve been flirting ever since the season started taping.

“I want to know everything about you, Aisu,” Victor says, practically purring as he slides his fingertips down Aisu’s arm to touch the queen’s hand. “Like your favorite club to perform at. Or what your boy name is. If there’s someone back home you’re missing.”

He feels Aisu shiver at his touch, sees the way her cheeks color without the help of any cosmetics. But she pulls her hand away.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-I…” Aisu clears her throat. “Yuuri. Is my boy name.”

“Yuuri,” Victor repeats to himself, feeling the way his lips curve upward as he says it. _Yuuuu-ri_. The way it fits in his mouth, he can’t help but smile.

But then he remembers where they are - competing on Drag Race, the queens are always technically “in drag” whether they’re in their wigs and heels or not. Victor has been a member of the Pit Crew for five seasons now; he knows it’s terrible drag etiquette to use a queen’s so-called “boy name,” or using non-she pronouns, in the wrong context. So he reluctantly puts this gem to the back of his mind, ready to bring it back out again for a rainy day.

“Aisu,” he says, smiling benignly at the queen, “I’ve been watching you all season, you know.”

“Oh, god.” Aisu hides her face behind her notepad.

“And I saw you once, at a club in Detroit.” It’s not like the queen would remember; Victor is all too aware of how popular Aisu Minxx is on the Detroit club circuit, of how many thousands of adoring fans she has. “I’ve seen you perform. Hell, I think you have the stuff it takes to _win_. Why can’t you make it happen?”

Aisu sucks in her lips so her mouth forms a thin line.

“I… struggle with the challenges,” she finally says. “And I guess…” She looks down into her lap. “I don’t have a lot of confidence.”

“That’s right,” Victor says. It’s only gotten worse over subsequent weeks too, he’s noticed. Every week, when carrying whatever ridiculous prop the producers have asked him to bring in for the contestants, he’s seen Aisu — and he’s seen the way her confidence has slowly been deflating. “And what better way to boost your morale than to make over some hopeless, inexperienced queen—“ He gestures to himself. “—in your image!”

Aisu looks up at that, looking confused.

“I…” She shakes her head. “Victor, no. I don’t want you to be a copy of me. Yeah, there’s got to be some resemblance in our looks for the challenge, but…” She leans back in her chair. “Drag is about… being yourself. About not giving a damn about how fem I look or act, or whether I’m fitting in, or how people expect me to behave. I go out there on stage and it’s like… Yuuri, and all his shortcomings, don’t exist anymore, if only for that hour. There’s only Aisu.”

“Wow,” Victor says softly. He’s never really thought of drag that way before, for all his awareness of the drag community. And he can’t help but think of his time being on the Pit Crew. Yes, of course he’s treated fairly by producers and crew members, but his role on the show is to be little more than a pretty, smiling doll to be used however the queens want.

(Within decency, of course. Although he has posed, along with three or four other men, in a mock orgy that a queen needed a shot of for her challenge-mandated perfume commercial.)

“I want that for you, too.” Victor looks up to see Aisu’s eyes shining. “Drag changed my life, Victor. So for this challenge… yes, we’ll have similar looks and makeup. But I want you to be yourself, in the most authentic way you can be.”

“Myself,” Victor repeats, feeling slightly dumbstruck. He can’t remember the last time someone asked him simply to be himself, either at work or outside of it.

Drag is going to be much, much harder than he ever thought possible.

—

“Christ, Otabek.” Halfway across the room, Furiosa Tigre is trying to fit her partner into a corset that has recently had sequined tiger stripes hot-glued to it. “What did I tell you? Suck in your waist. If we don’t cinch you, I’m going to get dinged for letting you go out with that hog body of yours.”

“Hog body?” Otabek repeats, indignant, before grunting as Furiosa tightens the laces. Halfway across the room, there is a yelp as Hope Partizan’s partner loses his balance, struggling to get into a pair of pantyhose. Then, a volley of swearing as Michele does her best to grapple with the sewing machine, rather than use one of the hot glue guns that seem to be ubiquitous around here. Furiosa, on the other hand, seems almost proud that the looks she’s constructed for them both are made out of little more than sequins, hot glue, and a prayer.

“Look, I know I’m tiny,” Furiosa says, more softly this time. Otabek knows; he still remembers that alarming time she walked the runway with a sixteen-inch waist. “It’s kind of my thing? And you’re, well, less tiny.”

“I’m the shortest on the Pit Crew.”

“Whatever! My point is, we’re supposed to match. So we have to make your waist look at least a little smaller.” Furiosa keeps pulling the cinches, lacing the corset tighter and tighter, and Otabek does his best to hold his breath. “There! Finally!”

She drags Otabek over to the full-length mirror, standing over his shoulder as they both examine the end result of the cinching. Otabek’s torso does, indeed, look less square than it should, given the muscle mass in his chest and abdomen.

“Damn,” Furiosa says appreciatively, though Otabek isn’t sure if it’s because of how he looks, or because of her own efforts. “Looking good, Otabek.”

“Don’t call me Otabek.” Their eyes meet in the mirror, Furiosa raising an eyebrow. “Call me…” Otabek tosses his hair, imagining himself with a long, black mane. “Beka Ferosha.”

Furiosa actually grins at him.

“Right on.” She nods. “All right, Beka. Let’s get your nails did.”

—

Because there is no god, RuPaul walks into the room about halfway through their allotted work time and announces that not only will the queens and their partners have to walk the runway in matching looks.

No, they’ll also be lip-syncing a song of their choice together on the main stage while performing a choreographed dance routine.

Sometimes Yuuri really regrets letting Phichit sign him up for this reality TV show.

“Aisu!” There’s a volley of _clomps_ as Victor crosses the Werk Room back to Yuuri’s table, still wearing the pair of kitten heels Yuuri had lent him. “We’ve got 30 minutes of rehearsal time after Anna and her partner. I was thinking—“ Victor stops short, taking in the mess that Yuuri has made of his work station. “…Uh… how’s costume construction going?”

Yuuri just stares at him. He’s been grappling with the sewing machine, trying to get it to sew through sequins and vinyl, for so long that he thinks his _eye_ muscles are cramping just from squinting at his work up close. There are scraps of black mesh, of hot pink sequins, of bright blue ribbon, all over the table and falling onto the floor.

“You have hot glue in your hair,” Victor points out, reaching over to pick it away. Yuuri yelps as a few of his hairs come with it. “Damn, sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Nothing is fine. He and Victor are going to be on the main stage in five hours, neither of their costumes are finished, and now he needs to create a _second_ look for them both that he and Victor can dance in, while losing time to dance rehearsal.

It wouldn’t be the first time Yuuri’s had a panic attack, but the last thing in the world he wants to do is have one on national television _in front of his beautiful crush_.

“Let’s skip it,” he finds himself saying. His trembling hands are fisted in a pile of the pink sequined material he was making Victor’s dress out of. “Let’s just not.”

“Not what?”

“Not rehearse.” Yuuri swallows, looking down at the half-finished dress in his hands and prying his fingers loose, smoothing out the fabric. “We don’t have time. Not if I have to make four complete outfits. I just— it—“

God, it was nice being here while it lasted. He wonders if Victor will remember him after his lipstick message has been wiped away.

“Aisu…” Victor looks around, clearly unnerved. “You can’t…” He catches Toxie and Carabosse staring at them, and he quickly puts his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. “Come with me.”

He leads Yuuri into the corner where Aisu’s wardrobe is hanging up, all the wigs and gowns and shoes he’ll never get to wear on the show, and guides Yuuri to sit on a stool.

“Yuuri,” he says softly, and Yuuri starts at the sound of his given name coming from Victor’s mouth. It sounds so beautiful, like it was meant to fit there. “I can tell you’re overwhelmed.”

Yuuri lets out a high-pitched giggle of nervous laughter, then clamps a hand over his mouth. “Overwhelmed” doesn’t even seem to touch what he’s feeling.

It’s this damn competition. Normally, his shows as Aisu last for only a few hours; it’s easy enough to put his anxieties aside for that length of time. But “being” her for a number of weeks, while under such intense scrutiny… his Aisu persona is slowly being chipped away, showing the insecure little boy Yuuri’s always been afraid he is underneath it all.

“It’s okay,” Victor is saying, and Yuuri struggles to pay attention to what he’s saying. “You’re not doing this alone. We’re a team, remember?”

“I know,” Yuuri says, shaking his head, “but…”

“It’s like Ru said. You’re bringing me into your world; so I’m part of your drag family now. And families support each other, no matter what.”

Victor’s words are simple, but they touch Yuuri all the same, making his eyes well up with tears. Phichit might be here, but away from his usual drag community, away from his family… Yuuri’s never been good at opening up to others in the first place. But knowing Victor is there by his side reminds him that he also has others back home rooting for him, backing him up, and the burden he’d been carrying alone suddenly feels a little less heavy.

He isn’t fighting alone, after all.

“Victor,” Yuuri manages to choke out before the tears start to fall. Thick, embarrassing sobs burst from his throat. “Thank you.”

“S-sure.” Victor’s hands hover over him for a moment as though unsure if it’s safe to touch him. “And, um… if we end up in the bottom two, I’ll take responsibility and perform in the Lip Sync for Your Life.”

For a moment, that makes Yuuri laugh, even though it sounds like he’s crying harder. It’s an impossible thing for Victor to volunteer, but he’s touched nonetheless.

“Sorry.” Victor is, strangely, the one to apologize first. “I’m not good with people crying in front of me. Should I kiss you or something?”

“No,” Yuuri says, using his fingertips to smooth away the tears under his eyes. Thank goodness he has that cold eye mask stashed away somewhere, to get rid of the puffiness. “I don’t need you to do anything. Just… have more faith in me than I do. Keep standing with me.”

Victor nods, still watching Yuuri. His eyes are shining as though Yuuri’s just handed him some kind of incredible gift.

“Of course. If you need that half-hour to work on sewing, then that’s what we’ll do. And if there’s any way I can…” Victor cuts himself short, looking somewhere over Yuuri’s shoulder. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Yuuri turns to see what Victor is looking at. They’re between two dress racks, with the explosion of multicolored spangles and feathers that is Yuuri’s wardrobe hung up behind them.

Victor has gotten up to touch one of Yuuri’s favorite pieces, an off-the-shoulder short dress made of shimmering black sequins and embellished with crystals on the shoulder and at the hip. “This is _gorgeous_. Why haven’t I seen you in it?”

“Oh…” Yuuri gets up, pulling the dress out so they can both examine it fully. “It’s… the first dress I ever did drag in. I guess I was saving it for the right challenge here?” He touches the dress wistfully. “But I may never get the chance now.”

Victor takes a critical look at the dress. The wheels in his head appear to be turning rapidly.

“No,” he finally says. “We’re wearing it for this challenge.”

“What?” Yuuri’s already spent the better part of an hour constructing pink and blue evening gowns for their runway. “Victor—“

“You can dance in this, right?” Victor sways the hanger gently back and forth; the sequins sparkle beautifully in the light.

“Yeah…” Yuuri did his first onstage death drop in that dress, actually. The skirt is short and full enough to allow for full movement, and it looks lovely when he twirls.

“Wear it for our lip sync. All you have to do is make me something that matches.” Victor shoves the dress at him. “I’ll handle the rest. Now get sewing!”

“But—!”

Victor beams. With the way his top lip bows, his mouth looks like a heart when he smiles.

“Don’t worry. It might seem like I’m just your average pretty face, but I’m actually a trained dancer. So, you sew, I’ll pick a song from your iPod that we can dance to. Go, Team Minxx!”

He starts to march off triumphantly, still wearing his kitten heels. Yuuri watches him for a moment, then groans.

“Victor, no,” he says, walking a few steps behind him. “You’re not choreographing _anything_ until you fix that manly runway walk of yours.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...! 
> 
> Everyone's Secret Drag Identities:
> 
> Aisu Minxx: Yuuri K. ("Aisu" is Japanese for "ice cream," but sounds like "ice"; I'm referencing "Eros" indirectly)  
> Alma Vivo: Seung-Gil (rip)  
> Sierra Incognita: Phichit (after "Terra Incognita")  
> Furiosa Tigre: Yuri P. (this is after his tiger shirt, of course, but also a nod to Ace Attorney character Furio Tigre)  
> Intoxicunt: Chris (obviously after "Intoxicated," plus he's modeled after Detox in RPDR in name and style)  
> Hope Partizan: JJ (after "Partizan Hope")  
> Anna Stasis: Emil (after "Anastasis")  
> Michele Crispino: Mickey (he uses his real name when he performs in drag, because of reasons)  
> Carabosse: Georgi (obviously)
> 
> And of course, "Serena Ciao Ciao" is Celestino. I couldn't resist making his name a pun of "Serena ChaCha," who competed on Drag Race in season 5 ~~(the best season)~~
> 
> Comments are my lifeblood!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor learns to sissy that walk. Leo's face is beat for the gods. And Yuuri tells himself, "Don't fuck it up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write something for Victor's birthday but was incapable of writing anything but this, for some reason.
> 
> A reminder of our cast of characters:
> 
> Yuuri: Aisu Minxx  
> Phichit: Sierra Incognita  
> Yurio: Furiosa Tigre  
> JJ: Hope Partizan  
> Mickey: Michele Crispino  
> Chris: Toxie (full name "Intoxicunt")  
> Georgi: Carabosse  
> Emil: Anna Stasis
> 
> Pit Crew members of note: Victor, Otabek, Leo (all of whom end up with drag names of their own by the end of this fic)
> 
> Real names are used in POV sections; otherwise, drag names are used. See note in chapter 1 for some explanation on pronoun use.

Yuuri feels indescribably better after crying.

More than anything, it was cathartic. _Drag Race_ is a marathon with new hurdles to clear every single day; he’s barely had time to catch his breath, to remind himself who he is and what he’s here to do. His single crying session with Victor, brief as it was, makes him feel cleansed of his doubts, ready to put aside small, ugly Yuuri Katsuki so that Aisu Minxx can fully reemerge.

But more than that, he doesn’t know if he can describe how much it meant for him to have Victor so fully on his side. He has Phichit here, of course, but Phichit’s focus will always be, first and foremost, on Sierra Incognita succeeding in this competition. And rightly so; Yuuri wouldn’t have as much respect for Phichit as a performer if he was always trying to hold Yuuri up, to his own detriment. But Victor here, cheering him on, supporting him and his decisions during this challenge… it means a lot to Yuuri.

Before today, he might have said that he would have been all right with Phichit outshining him, that it was only fair, that Phichit had worked so hard to get onto Drag Race and deserved to be the series’s first Thai winner. But now, he can’t help but want to snatch that crown for himself.

Perhaps it really had taken crying in front of his crush and nine cameras for him to finally find the fire that the judges have been demanding all this time. For the first time in weeks, his head is back in the game.

Now all that’s left is for him not to fuck it up.

He sets Victor’s newly-crafted garment on the dress form before turning his attention to his partner, who, in the past hour, has gone from an unsteady teeter on kitten heels to stomping the Werk Room floor in three-inch stilettos like he’s Naomi Campbell. Victor has been showing him bits of choreography as he practices his walk, and while his gait no longer reads “man” on the runway, Yuuri knows, as he watches Victor dance, that they still have a lot of work to do.

Victor ends with his final pose, arms wrapped around himself, and looks at Yuuri as though waiting for approval.

“Well?” he pants, slightly out of breath from the energetic vogueing. “Think that’ll work?”

For a moment Yuuri is distracted from answering by the sight of Victor’s heaving chest. Even covered by a thin tank, instead of bare like it usually is, it’s mesmerizing.

“It needs work,” he eventually says, and almost immediately wants to kick himself. It’s not the first time he’s thrown shade at his partner, which is almost second nature to him after years doing it to friends in the club scene. It’s cruel for him to keep doing it when Victor has been supporting him and when it’s clear he’s trying his hardest.

Thankfully, Victor spends enough time with drag queens that he doesn’t seem offended, though he does drop his pose.

“Yeah?” He wipes his brow. “Sorry. I’m a little out of practice choreographing for myself.”

“Oh, no, it’s not that.” Yuuri steps closer, trying to remain professional as his eyes wander up and down Victor’s body. He tells himself it’s only to envision what Victor might look like in drag, how the proportions of his body need to be augmented with padding in order to have a more feminine silhouette, but his eyes linger on Victor’s ass, his chest, longer than they need to. He drags his eyes up to Victor’s mouth, half-envisioning how he’ll draw on his lips, and half-wondering if his mouth feels as soft as it looks.

“Aisu?”

God, Victor’s going to make a beautiful drag queen.

“That’s it,” Yuuri decides. “I need to teach you to move like a woman.”

Even though he’s standing still, Victor somehow manages to trip over his heels. He catches himself on the edge of the work table before he can twist something, thankfully.

“T-teach me?” he all but chokes.

“Mm.”

Yuuri bends down, pulling out his own pair of stilettos and casually stepping into them before crossing to Victor, circling him, appraising him. The way Victor dances is strong, masculine, beautiful… and nothing at all like Aisu Minxx’s sensual, feminine style of dance. Victor can hardly be faulted for playing up his manly side when that’s what he’s been paid to do on this show for five years, but undoing that programming within a day so he can match what Yuuri does onstage… That, above anything else, is the real challenge ahead of them.

“Okay,” he says, and comes to stand immediately in front of Victor. “Think fluid. Soft. The way you move is too… sharp, and square. Be gentler than that.” He’s finding it hard to articulate what he means; Yuuri’s always been better at letting his body, rather than his mouth, do the talking. “I… here. Watch me.”

He begins to move through Victor’s choreography, running his hands down his body, rolling his hips in time to some unheard music. The track Victor’s chosen is energetic, but he slows his movements down, knowing Victor won’t be able to pick up on what he’s doing otherwise. He reaches behind him to touch Victor’s face, his arms, gently holding his wrists to guide Victor’s hands to his hips so that Victor can feel, not just see, how he’s moving.

“Remember,” he tells Victor, “you’re the most beautiful creature on the stage. Every man in the room wants you. He can’t keep his eyes off you.”

“Yes,” he hears Victor breathe. He can feel Victor moving behind him, hips moving in time with Yuuri’s, and if Yuuri were to back up just an inch, their bodies would be pressed up against each other in ways that Yuuri has been dreaming about since episode one started filming. He exhales, slow and shaky.

“You’re Beyonce,” he tells Victor.

Victor’s rhythm stutters slightly, and Yuuri can feel the shiver heading down his body. “B-Beyonce?”

“Your diva inspiration.” Yuuri disengages so he can turn back, lock eyes with Victor. “Remember?”

“Oh…”

There is a lovely flush spreading across Victor’s cheeks, his eyes wide as he stares back at Yuuri. Victor’s throat bobs; Yuuri watches it, briefly entertains the fantasy of laying his lips on Victor’s Adam’s apple.

It’s too dangerous to think like this.

“Just like that.” He clears his throat as he takes a few steps away, Victor’s hands falling from his hips. “Now. Show me again.”

Victor’s face is still pink, but his smile widens. It’s not like the detached smile he often gives during those panning shots of the Pit Crew in their underwear (that Yuuri may have rewound a few too many times when watching past seasons at home). The smile Victor gives him now is warm, full of something that — if Yuuri isn’t careful — he might mistake for love.

“Right.”

Victor strikes his opening pose, and starts again.

 

—

 

Phichit happens to love giving makeovers. It’s a huge part of his day job as a makeup artist, and seeing the transformation his clients go through is the most gratifying part of the process.

But he has to admit, under this particular set of circumstances, having to do makeup for two people is nothing less than a nightmare — especially when he has to do Sierra’s signature over-the-top drag makeup. That takes well over an hour on a good day, and that’s just for one person.

At least his partner is a good sport. His Pit Crew member, Leo, puts up no complaint even as Phichit beats him with a loaded powder puff, setting Sierra’s severe contour in place.

“You want to be able to see these cheekbones from space,” he explains as Leo chokes on a particularly harsh puff of golden powder.

Leo looks in the mirror uncertainly, taking in the ferocious Nike check cheeks. “Um… I think we’re there.”

Phichit glances around the room, taking in his competitors. Hope and her partner are having a kiki, gossiping and giggling in their corner while Furiosa glowers at them. Behind a folding screen there’s an ominous _rrrrip_  of duct tape as Toxie tucks her poor sister’s dick tighter than any sane queen ought to be tucked — but, Phichit considers, with Toxie’s reputation for strutting the runway practically naked, he supposes it’s expected. And next to Phichit, Anna’s clean-shaven partner is being outfitted with a prosthetic beard to fit within Anna’s unique style of genderfuck. Anna’s natural facial hair, usually paired with a glamorous pageant dress, is practically her signature on the runway; the judges give her shit for it week after week, but Phichit respects Anna for sticking to her guns.

And meanwhile, on Phichit’s other side, there’s the Sexual Tension duo.

Victor sits very, very still in his chair while Yuuri — already fully painted — carefully outlines his lips in Aisu’s signature shade of scarlet. (Phichit can’t help but cringe a little, knowing how infrequently his sister washes her makeup brushes. Then again, when she and Victor end up with matching cold sores just from sharing a lip brush, they’ll both probably think it’s romantic.) Aisu is wearing that look she usually does when concentrating: eyes shining, face very close to the surface she’s painting… which typically means Aisu is inches from the mirror, but as it is now, her face is close enough to Victor’s that it looks like they might make out at any moment. But even aside from that, there’s a fire in Aisu’s eyes that Phichit hasn’t seen since the first week or two of the competition

He wonders what about this challenge has brought that light back.

And he admits, he’s torn. The Phichit side of him is proud of his friend for overcoming his anxieties and shining in a way Phichit has always known Yuuri can.

But Sierra Incognita is positively shitting herself, knowing all too well what Aisu Minxx is capable of at the top of her game. The crown, which had felt so close within her reach, feels like it’s just slipped that much further away with another real competitor showing up.

Leo shifts in his chair. “Um… Sierra? Are we done with my face?”

Phichit shakes himself. Now isn’t the time to start getting in his own head.

“For now,” Phichit says, hurriedly slicking back his hair and tying on his stocking cap so he can start the makeup process on himself. Leo has to cook for a bit before Phichit can add blush or finish drawing on his eyes, and Phichit’s own face is still completely bare. He can only hope to get them both fully ready for the main stage in the next half hour. “Go get your body on, Blanca Castillo.”

He playfully smacks Leo on the hip to get him out of the makeup chair, and Leo — or Blanca Castillo, as she’s chosen to be called — yelps before obediently rushing off to grab her new hip pads.

Phichit isn’t the only queen struggling with this challenge. At the end of the row of mirrors, Michele and her new sister are having words.

“Hold still, Sara.”

Michele licks the end of her glue stick before resuming her attack on her new sister’s eyebrows, gluing down the bristles and the hair at his temples. Michele’s partner — who Michele has christened “Sara” with no input — only flinches at the unsanitary practice and the rough way he’s being treated.

“Do… do I have to go by ‘Sara’?” the new Sara Crispino asks timidly. “I kind of wanted something… more fun. Maybe like, since your name’s Michele, I could play off of that? Maybe ‘Mabelle,’ like the Beatles song, or we can play off the judges and I can be ‘Sanita’ like Santino?”

“No,” Michele barks, and grabs a fine-toothed comb so she can continue pasting down Sara’s bushy eyebrows. “I use my real name in drag. My real sister’s name is Sara, and you’re my drag sister, so that’s your name too. No need to get all cute with it.” The glue snags in the teeth of the comb, making Sara flinch in pain, and Michele just rolls her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m bothering, though. It’ll take a miracle for you to be as pretty as the real Sara.” She sighs. “Are you sure you won’t let me shave your eyebrows all the way off?”

Sara looks close to tears. Otabek is a few chairs down, letting his face cook while Furiosa finishes teasing Beka Ferosha’s wig, and he can’t help but look sympathetically over at Sara.

 

—

 

In an interview that was obviously filmed later, Sara — known as George before his drag makeover — gives the camera a small, sad smile.

“I was really looking forward to this,” he tells producers. “I’ve been on the Pit Crew for years, and I thought… I always thought it would be fun, being a drag queen for a day. I was ready to work hard, but.” He looks deeply sad for a moment before smiling again, neutral, at producers. “It wasn’t what I expected, that’s all.”

 

—

 

“I have very specific standards,” Michele barks back in her own talking head. Her interview outfit is the epitome of “theater kid”: black turtleneck, black silk beret perched just so on his head, eyebrows fully shaved off and drawn back on in thick pencil. “If George can’t meet them, it’s my job to make him keep up. He’s representing my brand, you know? I can’t let him fuck it up.”

 

—

 

“The way Michele treated his partner…”

Hope Partizan waggles her finger at the camera, shaking her head in disapproval. The T-shirt she’s wearing is one of her own face in drag, bedazzled within an inch of its life, and she’s wearing a black snapback that says “HP STYLE” in four-inch gold letters across the front.

“Forget the challenge. Forget being teammates. It just plain isn’t right.”

 

—

 

“Beka.” In his makeup chair, Otabek pulls his sights away from the disaster unfolding in Michele’s makeup chair. “Let me try this hair on you.” And the next thing Otabek knows, he’s got a massive wig plopped on top of his head, two complete black wigs that have been wefted together and teased within an inch of their life. The hair’s a bit unwieldy on his head, but the proportions are right to help minimize the impact of his broad shoulders.

“You putting on big hair too?” Otabek asks Furiosa as she darts around him, continuing to fix strands here and there. But Furiosa doesn’t seem to hear.

“Michele’s an idiot,” he mutters, looking over to their neighbor as she continues to berate her partner. “I mean, what the fuck kind of drag name is ‘Sara’? Michele’s supposed to be a drama queen, for fuck’s sake. Where’s her sense of theatrics?”

 

—

 

“There are so few queens left that I actually respect,” Furiosa tells the producers, slouched in her chair. “Michele’s a dick, Anna’s an airhead, Hope’s insufferable…”

The camera helpfully flashes to shots of all the queens in the workroom as Furiosa talks smack about them. The last shot is an extended take of Aisu Minxx, simply staring at Victor’s bare chest while the Pit Crew member struggles to get out of his tank top without smearing his makeup.

“Now, if Aisu would actually put some fucking effort into her drag I might respect her, but bitch has been in the bottom four times. Girl’s got no fight in her.”

 

—

 

Furiosa is side-eyeing Aisu now, though both she and Victor seem oblivious to the shit the youngest competitor is intent on stirring. In fact, Victor is blind to anything that isn’t his own face, which has been completely transformed. The ruby lips, the exquisite contour of his cheeks, the sensual dark eyes… This isn’t the first time Victor has worn makeup, but he’s rarely gone beyond a bit of mascara and tinted moisturizer. Here, it’s like Aisu has taken the bones of his face and completely rearranged them.

“I need a new name,” he says, still feeling slightly dazed. They haven’t even discussed a drag name for him yet, and now, looking at his reflection, he knows his new persona has to reflect the transformation he’s undergone. He can’t simply slap an “a” onto the end of his name and become “Victoria”.

Victor’s eyes fall on the nearest makeup product, one of the sponsored products the queens are required to use. “How about… Anastasia?” he tries, pronouncing the end of the name so it rhymes with “Mia”. He lays a hand at the side of his face, repeating the name in a softer, breathier voice. “Anastasia Minxx,” he says to an imaginary audience. “Nice to meet you, gorgeous.”

He tears his eyes away from the mirror to look at Aisu for approval, but she seems busy staring at the dead center of Victor’s chest. It doesn’t feel lascivious, but Victor feels himself grow hot regardless.

“Aisu,” he repeats, more clearly. “Did you hear me?”

The seasoned drag queen still says nothing. Instead, she reaches out, as if in a trance, to caress Victor’s chest, running her hands over and around his pecs.

For a moment, Victor thinks he’s truly died and gone to heaven. Aisu’s warm hands cradle his pecs almost tenderly, and Victor tightens his grip on the sides of his makeup chair, trying to fight the urge to touch her, to pull her close the way he’s longed to for weeks.

Then Aisu pushes Victor’s pecs together, frowning intently as she looks at the effect, and while Victor’s still turned on, he also can’t help but be a little confused.

“What’s going on?” he asks Aisu, serious. “Did you have a stroke?”

Aisu looks up at him through those dark eyes — the effect would take Victor’s breath away even if the queen wasn’t wearing false lashes that flutter every time she blinks — and seems to snap out of it.

“You’re wearing a low-cut dress,” she says, and disappointingly drops her hands. “I-I have to… contour.” She grabs a dark contouring stick, drawing a deep V right over Victor’s heart.

 _Bullseye_ , Victor thinks as he watches her continue to draw on the illusion of cleavage.  _You got it, mama._

The flirtatious moment has been captured by cameras, but has also not gone unnoticed by the majority of queens in the room.

“So, Victor,” Toxie calls from halfway across the room. “Does she worship the dolls, then?”

“Call me Anastasia,” Victor replies, too distracted by the smooth glide of cream foundation over the sensitive part of his chest to look up, much less to register what he’s being asked.

“Girl!” Carabosse lets out a bark of laughter. “Half the drag daughters in this damn room are named Anastasia. None of y’all are creative.”

“‘Anastasia Beverly Hills’ is on all the furniture!” complains the queen Carabosse is currently making over, dark blue and purple eyeshadow extending all the way to her browline while Carabosse paints on metallic gray lipstick. “It was subconscious!”

“Then I’ll use a shorter version,” Victor says, running through his mental rolodex of Russian diminutives. “I’m… Nastia Minxx,” he settles, exaggerating his natural Russian accent. “Russian mail order hooker bride of Aisu Minxx, yes?”

He bats his eyes down at Aisu, who doesn’t look up from blending Victor’s chest, but the way the corners of her mouth turn up heartens him.

“So that answers that question,” Toxie all but purrs, sounding so unbearably smug that Victor turns to look at her. She’s wearing little more than a few strips of latex over her nipples and crotch, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Like what you see, darling?” She places her hands on her hips, bedazzled acrylics a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin. “Come find me when the show’s over, okay honey?”

She winks, and Victor smiles, bemused.

“What?” he almost laughs. “What are you talking about?”

“She’s saying you like to fuck drag queens,” Michele says over her shoulder, crossing the room to grab her private stash of makeup. “Which, no shade, but you’re not subtle about it. Just a shame you don’t have better taste.”

“Oohs” sound all around the room, fourteen pairs of eyes now on Victor and Aisu. Stunned, Victor looks down at Aisu, who’s frozen with a beauty blender in her hand. And sure, Victor won’t deny finding Aisu irresistible both in and out of drag, but she’s the first drag performer he’s ever felt drawn to like this. The way these other queens are talking, making it out to sound like some kind of fetish, is unfair to what he’s feeling.

“Aisu,” he starts, but Aisu isn’t listening, throwing stinkeye across the room to Michele.

“Michele,” she says, somehow staying calm even though Victor can see a storm brewing in her eyes, “if you want to start something with me, do it with me. Don’t come for my drag wife.”

“I’m not coming for you!” Michele says, putting her hands up innocently. “I’m just saying what everyone in the room is already thinking. You think you can coast through this competition and not put in any of the work, but just assassinate your more talented sisters in lip syncs every week. You’re a pretty face, and a nice ass, and nothing else, and even you know that.”

“Michele, that’s not fair,” Sierra starts from her corner, with Hope and Anna making sounds of support, but Furiosa, never one to pass up an opportunity to start a fight, speaks up before anyone can say more.

“Let’s look at two weeks ago,” she says, holding up her fingers, and Carabosse whoops, more out of delight for the drama unfolding than support for what Furiosa and Michele are saying. “Team acting challenge. You didn’t know your words, had zero characterization, and Rosie Savage literally danced circles around you in that lip sync. But hey, you’re good TV, I guess, so sayonara, Rosie.” She waves, mockingly, toward the Werk Room exit.

“To be fair, she was cartwheeling her way through a Norah Jones song,” Anna muses. “It was a little embarrassing to watch…”

But Furiosa isn’t done. “And then last week, that mishegas of a Snatch Game? If Alma had known her words for the lip sync, she’d still be here. Hell, she should still be here. Rosie should still be here. You’re sleepwalking through this competition and obviously don’t care about doing well, so why don’t you do yourself a favor and sashay the fuck out of here?”

Victor is halfway out of his chair, not about to let Furiosa talk that way about Aisu — but his partner has beat him to it, resting a hand on Victor’s shoulder to settle him.

“You’re completely underestimating me.” Aisu gives Furiosa a calm, confident smile. “I really wouldn’t do that.”

Furiosa’s lip curls, looking at Aisu like she’s an insect she can’t wait to crush beneath her thigh-high boot.

“If you’ve really got it,” she snaps, “then fucking bring it. You’re on your last life, kitty girl.”

Aisu raises one eyebrow.

“Noted.”

Furiosa turns on her heel, clearly angry that she hasn’t gotten Aisu to cry or rage at her on camera, and with the drama over, the other queens return to their own preparations. Aisu turns away from Victor to the table behind them, where she’s laid out their wigs and costumes; Victor can’t tell if she’s hurt by what Michele and Furiosa have said or not.

“Aisu,” he says quietly. “Are you all right?”

She looks over her shoulder at him, her expression unreadable.

“Fine,” she says, picking up the platinum blonde wig Victor’s going to wear and brushing it off. “They don’t know what I can really do.” She meets Victor’s eyes, and Victor can see the fire burning in them. “Are you ready to show them?”

Victor nods, his grin widening.

“Absolutely.” He hops out of his chair, ducking slightly so Aisu can start pinning on his wig. “At the end of the night, they’ll all be gagging on your eleganza.”

He hears Aisu chuckle.

“Oh, honey.” She takes the last bobby pin out of her mouth, tucking it behind Victor’s ear, and murmurs her next words right into the shell of his ear.

“I’m gonna make them choke on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll try not to take nine months/a season and a half of irl _drag race_ to update this fic next time
> 
> please ~~clap~~ comment. merry vicmas :)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/apostaroni) | [Tumblr](http://phoenixrei.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Category is: Unresolved Sexual Tension Realness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been updated from 3 to 5 chapters because I'm out of control. There's probably enough content for one real chapter after this, but I put down 5 in case there's an epilogue? I'm also definitely planning a sequel in this same series just to let these two finally get their rocks off.
> 
> There are some songs in this fic linked at the relevant parts; you can hit "play" during those scenes if you want to feel like you're watching the episode. I'll also put them in the end notes with some 'splanation. 
> 
> p.s. pronouns are fake, do not trust them

_Cover girl! Put the bass in your walk! Head to toe, let your whole body talk!_

The speakers blare with RuPaul’s signature song as the host floats across the main stage in her full glamazon drag. Yuuri can’t see it from his place backstage, but he can feel the pulse of the music and the heat of the spotlights.

He feels the world narrow to this point in time. Spots of hot pink, yellow, orange cut through the darkness of backstage and burn into Yuuri’s retinas; he can hear the other queens around him, breathing, waiting for their turn to make their own main stage debuts. Victor is standing close enough that Yuuri can feel his body heat, catch a whiff of his perfume on the air.

He isn’t overly upset by what went down in the Werk Room, because Michele and Furiosa were right. This is his last chance. If he goes home today, he might not have disgraced his drag family, but he might never see Victor again. So he wants to win. He has to win. He—

“Aisu.”

He hears Victor’s voice, feels his hand slip into his. “Ready?”

That’s right. Victor is still here, at Yuuri’s side, at least for now. He looks at Victor, sidelong, lowering his eyelids to peer at him through his false lashes to obscure his nerves.

“I’m feeling the fantasy,” he purrs in Aisu’s voice. His self-consciousness becomes stripped away whenever he embodies her, this bold seductress who always leaves her audience wanting more. “Don’t you dare take your eyes off me, Nastia.”

Victor’s cheeks are pink, and not from the layers of blush Yuuri applied.

“Never.”

“Gentlemen!” says RuPaul onstage. “Start your engines. And may the best woman win!”

Yuuri drops Victor’s hand, inhales, and lets go of his last bits of nervousness.

Aisu Minxx didn’t come here to play. She came to slay.

 

—

 

They’re the last pair to dance.

Most pairs end up doing some simple vogueing to a RuPaul song, to varying degrees of competence. Hope and her partner seem to be having the most fun, while Toxie and Michele keep their dances a bit too simple. Furiosa Tigre and her partner, Beka Ferosha, break the mold by doing a striptease to an energetic, instrumental rock song, both of them dressed like rocker chicks. Furiosa slides across the stage on her knees, flipping and kicking up a storm, stripping off her jacket and revealing a leather bustier to the delighted howls of the judges. Beka Ferosha is the Kelly Rowland to Furiosa’s Beyonce, largely fading into the background at her side; though she does peel off Furiosa’s fingerless leather gloves with her teeth at one point.

By the time Aisu and Nastia Minxx make their main stage debut, half the judges already have a look in their eyes that suggests they’ve already picked the challenge winner.

Aisu is determined to change their minds.

[The beat to their song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gr9AeY3bCwc) kicks off, and side by side, they strut onto the runway, taking poses on opposite wings.

 _“Got a figure like a pinup, got a figure like a doll,”_ lipsyncs Nastia, running her hands down the new curves of her body. She’s wearing a short fuchsia babydoll dress, her top a mass of pink ruffles and her teased platinum blond wig topped with an over-the-top pink bow. She’s the image of sweet innocence, winking coquettishly at the judges’ panel while her posture remains demure, hands folded in her lap. _“Don’t care if you think I’m dumb— I don’t care at all. Candybear, sweetie pie, wanna be adored, I’m the girl you die for.”_

She twirls, her skirts whirling around her, and delicately bites one fingertip.

 _“I’ll chew you up and I’ll spit you out,”_ Aisu lipsyncs from the opposite side of the stage, making Nastia turn in surprise. While Nastia is the human embodiment of cotton candy, Aisu is clearly the bad girl of the pair: long black hair coming halfway down her back, smoky eyes and ruby lips. Her short dress is made of black leather with panels of see-through mesh revealing swaths of skin across her chest and abdomen, large crystals splayed across her right shoulder and her hips. Her movements, too, are harsh where Nastia’s were soft, stalking across the stage toward her like a panther, heat in her eyes. _“Cause that’s what your love is all about.”_

 _“So pull me closer,”_ Nastia says, taking her own steps toward Aisu as though hypnotized, _“and kiss me hard.”_

They circle one another, their gazes locked together now. The rest of the world well might not exist.

Aisu yanks Nastia close midsentence.

_“I’m gonna pop your bubblegum heart.”_

They pull apart, hands clutching one another, skirts whirling. Aisu’s underskirt is paneled in red silk, an alluring pop of color right at her thighs. Nastia pulls her right back in as they both mouth the words to the chorus, both of them spinning and vogueing in unison.

 _“I’m Miss Sugar Pink, liquor liquor lips,_  
_Heal me with your sweet love, steal me with a kiss._  
_I’m Miss Sugar Pink, liquor liquor lips,_  
_I’m gonna be your bubblegum bitch._  
_I’m gonna be your bubblegum bitch!”_

At the last line Nastia breaks away, gripping the hem of her skirt and twisting it, a classic flamenco move. Aisu slinks toward her, slow and sensuous.

“ _I think I want your, your American tan,”_ she mouths. Her fingers close around the lacy hem of Nastia’s skirt, their bodies close to one another, her ruby lips almost brushing against Nastia’s bubblegum ones. Then she yanks, and she pulls, and the bows and crinoline of Nastia’s dress fall away to reveal a sleek miniskirt. “ _I think I’m gonna be my biggest fan, oh…”_ She repeats the motion with the ruffles on the front of Nastia’s dress, which easily tear away, leaving Nastia in a white minidress that mirrors Aisu’s black one, white sequins and a deep V-neck revealing her contoured cleavage.

And then, as the chorus kicks back up again, Nastia throws her massive wig off her head. She shakes out a long, high blond ponytail that falls all the way to her ass, effectively transforming her look from a Barbie doll to a club goddess.

The judges are losing their minds. But the number hasn’t ended yet.

Aisu and Nastia repeat the chorus once more, emoting the lyrics while dancing a drag parody of a paso doble; circling one another once more like the matador and the bull, although now it’s no longer clear which of them is which. At one point Nastia slips behind Aisu, mouthing the line _“steal me with a kiss”_ while pressing her plump pink lips to Aisu’s bare shoulder, leaving a sticky, obvious kiss mark there for all to see. Aisu glances down at it, still performing the song even while she appears slightly flustered. And still their dance picks up in momentum, more flourishes, spins, lights flashing all around them in something chaotic and beautiful.

 _“I’m gonna be your bubblegum bitch,”_ they tell each other, and Aisu takes Nastia’s hand, twirling her again and again to show the blue lining of her new skirt. _“I’m gonna be your bubblegum bitch!”_

As the song ends, Nastia’s hand finds Aisu’s waist to pull her close, bodies flush against one another, mouths a fraction apart.

Their dance number is over, and yet this moment stretches into infinity.

The temptation to lean in, close the gap, is almost unbearable. Aisu can feel every breath Nastia takes where their chests are pressed together, heaving. A strand of blond hair is stuck to Aisu's lip gloss, and she doesn't even try to brush it away, instead reaching out, instinctively, to keep Nastia close. Somehow her knee is between Nastia’s legs — she isn’t sure how that happened — and even through Nastia’s skirt and gaff she can feel her partner’s body reacting to their performance.

God. If Aisu doesn’t get a hold of herself, she might pop her tuck, and that will be the end of her career on basic cable.

The judges are ecstatic after their performance; they’re applauding wildly, along with every single member of the backstage crew.

“Wooooork!” hoots a delirious boom mic operator.

“We’ve gotta find a way to show that whole number,” Aisu can dimly hear RuPaul saying to a nearby line producer. “Cut Anna’s whole dance if you have to. This is ratings gold.”

But nothing can bring Aisu’s focus away from Nastia, still pressed against her, her fingers tangled in the back of Aisu’s wig.

“Kiss me.” Nastia sounds the way Aisu feels, and her heart beats that much faster. “Aisu, please.”

That use of her drag name — her fake name — brings Yuuri out of the fantasy.

Of course this isn’t real. Victor’s playing a character, just like Yuuri is. And he won’t kiss Nastia just to put on a good show, or to satisfy Victor’s fantasies about Aisu Minxx. It isn’t right — isn’t fair — it’s…

Aisu Minxx takes a deep breath, and lets Nastia go.

“Good job, babe,” she says, in character, since Nastia is supposed to be her wife. She turns to the audience, gracefully curtsying and blowing the judges’ table a kiss before floating off the runway, reaching for Nastia’s hand to keep the moment going for the cameras.

She lets go as soon as they’re offstage, reaching up with a deep breath to straighten her wig where it’s slipping. They’re changing their hair for the next runway, which is a blessing given how sweaty she is already, and she’ll probably have to touch up both their makeup…

“Aisu.” She feels Nastia’s — Victor’s — hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says hurriedly, just as a PA with a headset gestures to them both. With a curt nod she follows the PA, grabbing Nastia by the wrist and dragging her behind. Her heart is still pounding, her ears ringing, all her attention still focused on the queen stumbling behind her. Jesus, but she has to get a grip.

They arrive back at the makeup mirrors, and Aisu lets go of Nastia’s wrist. “Here,” she says, thrusting a mass of gold sequins into her partner’s arms. “Go behind the screen and put this on.”

She sits down at her makeup chair, still trembling, and pulls her wig off. Even now, far from the liminal space of the main stage, she can still feel Nastia pressed up against her, still hear her whispered plea. _Kiss me. Please._

Was it a ploy for the cameras? Or did Victor fall for the fantasy — want a night with Aisu Minxx without sparing a thought for the man behind her? It would be one thing if they’d planned their routine to be as spicy as it had been; but aside from practicing the lyrics and teaching Victor how to move more like a woman, they hadn’t prepared for their dance number much further beyond a general storyline. And on stage, the lines between fantasy and reality are too blurred for Aisu to know if what Victor seems to feel for Yuuri is real, or if he’s fallen under Aisu Minxx’s spell like so many men before him.

“Aisu?”

Aisu doesn’t want to think about it. Yuuri doesn’t want to think about it. They can’t afford to lose focus, not over anything. The show’s only halfway over with — they still have to change for their main presentation, and the momentum they’ve gained here will be meaningless if Aisu can’t keep it together.

“Yuuri, please talk to me.”

Hearing her boy name makes her feel vulnerable, which she doesn’t need right now. “Don’t call me that now,” Aisu snaps, turning to look at Victor. For a heartstopping moment Aisu thinks he’s standing there completely naked, which really isn’t helpful — but no, he’s still in his undergarments, a nude corset keeping his waist cinched while layers of pantyhose keep him tucked. “I… I need to focus.”

Victor worries his lip with his teeth, biting off what’s left of his bubblegum pink lipstick. Aisu has to look away, reaching for her crimson lip stain so she can touch up her own makeup.

“Why…” She pauses to rub her lips together, evening out the coat. “Why did you ask me that onstage?”

In the mirror, her eyes dart from her reflection to Victor’s. He’s smiling gently at her.

“I thought it was obvious.” He takes a step closer, his heel clacking on the concrete ground. “Is that so shocking, after everything that’s happened between us, that I might actually want to kiss you?”

It doesn’t answer any of the questions floating through her mind. Aisu exhales, her eyes back to her reflection as she delicately dabs a finger at the corner of her eye, making sure the false lashes are still in place.

If only Victor really knew how much she wants to kiss him. She may just be a passing fancy for Victor, a fetish or a fantasy, but Aisu — Yuuri — has ached for Victor since the Pit Crew member’s very first Drag Race appearance. At first it was just for his looks, but this season his kindness, his enthusiasm, his talent all has Victor tugging at Yuuri’s heart in a way that so few people ever have.

Falling so hard for something that might not even be real is incredibly dangerous.

“Switch places with me,” she says, rather than respond to Victor’s admission. Victor takes his own seat back in the makeup chair, and, after a quick swipe with a makeup wipe across Victor’s mouth, Aisu grabs the same lip color she’d been using. Ciao Ciao and Sierra would have a fit about how unhygienic she’s being, but whatever. She hasn’t got time.

“I can’t talk about this right now,” she tells him, which is the closest thing to the truth she can manage without losing control of her emotions. “Not in the middle of this competition. You… you get that, right?”

Victor’s expression has turned somber, his painted eyes meeting hers in the mirror.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah, I get it.”

Aisu tries not to think about how different it might be between them if she’d met Victor at one of her shows back in Detroit, without the scrutiny and regulations that an internationally-televised reality show brings. If they could try being together without the glamorous artifice of the stage lights, without layers of character and illusion getting in the way.

“Are you still okay with our main stage storyline?” she asks Victor, after gesturing for him to rub his lips together. “The… the mail order bride stuff?”

Victor blinks, and when she smiles, Nastia has reemerged.

“Whatever you need, baby.”

 

—

 

And now, with the crowd fully warmed up, the main stage runway presentation can fully begin.

_“[Welcome to the jun-gle…”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujkW_0pCyjw) _

With one of RuPaul’s songs blasting in the background, the queens and their new proteges make their entrance two by two.

First up is Carabosse in her best, witchiest drag: pops of dark blue and purple at her high collar, a glittering pompadour atop her head. Her drag daughter, Maleficent, is a bit more reserved, not striking poses quite as ferociously as Carabosse herself is, but her look is undeniably impactful, particularly with her six-inch nails and dress entirely made of transparent black lace. Hope and Anastasia Partizan are next in their campy, feathery flapper outfits, both of them clearly having a ball as they strut the runway; their bond in the Werk Room has let them put their sisterhood at center stage during this presentation.

Toxie and her sister Foxxxy come out next, Toxie in a skimpy bikini while Foxxxy wears a sparkling one-piece swimsuit with cutouts over the waist. Both of their faces are stunning, and when Foxxxy bends down to show her ass in a classic Intoxicunt move, the judges catcall in appreciation.

“Next up, Michele and Sara Crispino!”

The Crispino sisters… they’re in Old Hollywood glamour, dark hair cascading down opposite shoulders, Michele in her favorite red while Sara is in black. But even though they both smile at the judges, Sara putting on a happy face despite what she put up with in the Werk Room, their looks are underwhelming, to say the least. It’s undercut by the fact that Anna Stasis and her new sister Anya come out right after them in similar long, shimmering gowns, but their looks are set apart by two things. One, both Anna and Anya have full beards that have been dyed to match their sister’s gowns, with Anya’s dark blue beard perfectly matching Anna’s navy dress. The Stasis sisters have also given themselves feather boas to play with, the judges chuckling as Anna tickles the end of her chin with her white feather boa.

Next are Sierra Incognita and Blanca Castillo. Their outfits and hair are stunning and fully realized: Sierra declares via voiceover that they’re paying homage to one of her favorite films, _The King and the Skater_. Blanca is wearing an enormous hoopskirt with a striped cotton dress over it, while Sierra portrays a gender-bent version of the King from the film. She’s in draped, loose trousers made of stunning red and gold fabric, and an open jacket that shows off no small amount of cleavage as well as Sierra’s sculpted waist. The two even briefly perform a few steps of an energetic polka, Blanca’s hoopskirt bouncing up and down, to solidify the reference for the judges.

But their makeup is, for lack of a better word, busted. Sierra Incognita is known for her overdrawn features, large eyes and lips and fully carved cheekbones; but it seems she’s only had time to give Blanca the cheekbones while leaving the eyes and lips for herself, resulting in a bizarre look for them both. Even though the queens pull it off as best they can, it’s difficult to look directly at them without cringing at their mismatched features.

_“Sa-shay, shan-tay, panther on the run-way…”_

Furiosa Tigre comes out with Beka Ferosha, having changed from their rocker getups into looks more evocative of their wild names: namely, full of sequined animal print. Beka Ferosha has been given a tiger motif, with a corset covered in sequined orange and black stripes; the corset bites into her chest and waist, but she still moves like a champ, prowling the stage like her name might suggest. Furiosa has the same look in leopard print, completing the look with leopard spots drawn on her neck and bare arms. She moves the stage like an animal, snarling at the judges — a gesture Beka repeats half a moment later — and both of them stomp off the stage in unison.

And then…

“Please welcome to the stage, Aisu Minxx and, introducing, Nastia Minxx!”

Aisu appears first, alone. She's changed out of her black dress and is now serving executive realness: tight navy pencil skirt clinging to every curve of her padded hips and ass, the matching cropped blazer embellished with twining green and pink rhinestone vines on the lapels. Aisu’s dark wig is perfectly styled into an elegant bun, elegant tendrils framing her painted face. She surveys the room with a domineering expression, making the judges sit up and take notice. RuPaul even makes the predictable comment that “she owns 51% of this company,” but Aisu takes no notice, gesturing sharply offstage to an unseen partner.

But, rather than Nastia stepping onstage, an enormous white box with a pink bow is pushed onto the runway. Aisu raps twice, sharply, onto the lid of the box, and almost immediately the lid flies off as though something has exploded from inside. The judges whoop in appreciation.

“Now that’s thinking out of the box!”

“Ooh, halleloo!”

Aisu pays no attention, extending a hand to the woman inside the box: the newly minted Nastia Minxx, posing with her hands on her hips and a poised pageant smile on her face. Aisu looks her up and down: the sweep of platinum blond hair down her back, the formhugging gold lame minidress, the oversized scarlet bow tied around her neck.

The narrative is suddenly clear: Aisu’s bitchy CEO has received a mail order bride, and judging from the look on Nastia’s face, she is only too eager to provide anything Aisu might request of her.

Aisu finally makes her walk down the runway, with Nastia hurrying half a step behind her, giving her partner a look of sultry adoration. While Aisu stomps, walking confidently, Nastia’s walk is more of a delicate prance, making her blond curls bounce and helping to characterize her as somewhat a somewhat ditzy sycophant. They pose on opposite wings of the runway, Aisu still serving boldness while Nastia is a feminine doll, and the judges eat both of them up.

They turn, crossing each other in the middle, and as they do, Nastia taps Aisu on the shoulder, silently offering her cleavage to her mistress. Aisu raises an eyebrow before reaching down the front of Nastia’s low-cut dress, pulling out a black leather riding crop. It’s hard to miss the surprise that flashes in her eyes, and she looks uncertainly at Nastia, who simply nods before turning, offering Aisu her ass. Aisu gamely gives her a little swat with the end of the riding crop, and Nastia lets out a high-pitched “Oh!”, covering her mouth. She turns back, offering a filthy, crimson smile to Aisu, who raises an eyebrow as she studies her prize through hooded eyelids.

“Now, this a family show,” drawls RuPaul from the judges’ table, and the other judges cackle. Aisu and Nastia offer one another a secret, knowing smile — one borne of their characters’ relationship, Yuuri tells himself, and not whatever’s currently happening between him and Victor — before turning in unison, walking side by side off the runway once more. The wiggle in Nastia’s walk draws attention to the fake postage stamps on her ass, and RuPaul screams in appreciative laughter as Aisu and Nastia blow the judges one last kiss, exiting the main stage.

_“She’s like a female phenomenon — she’s a Glamazon! Female phenomenon… Glamazon-na-na-na!”_

 

—

 

With the presentation ended, all sixteen queens line up at the front of the main stage, proteges a half-step behind the contestants so everyone will fit. Blanca Castillo and Sierra are holding hands; Sara Crispino seems to be actively keeping her distance from Michele. Yuuri can feel Victor’s presence at her back, can feel the weight of unfinished business between them. It takes everything in Yuuri’s power to remain poised and keep his attention on the judging process instead of turning around to acknowledge him.

“Ladies,” says RuPaul, “based on your main stage presentations and lip sync performances, I’ve made some decisions.” She pauses to build suspense. “Anna Stasis. Furiosa Tigre. You two are… safe.”

Anna sighs with relief, but a dangerous look flits across Furiosa’s face, briefly, at being told that her performance was merely worthy of being safe. Still, she knows better than to argue with the series’s head judge, executive producer, host, and fucking namesake, so she keeps her mouth shut as she, Anna, and their drag daughters make their way offstage.

There’s a gleam in RuPaul’s eyes as she watches them go. Clearly, she’s hoping that Furiosa will throw a tantrum backstage over being snubbed, generating some solid ratings for this week’s episode of _Untucked_.

“And now,” she continues, addressing the remaining queens, “time for the judges’ critiques!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs in this fic:
> 
> Their lipsync number was to Marina and the Diamonds's "Bubblegum Bitch"'; the full version is linked in the fic, but I'm also going to go ahead and link this very excellent AMV that is the main reason I chose this song. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzKtejh9nOg
> 
> And the runway song was RuPaul's "Glamazon" because it's still one of my favorite runway jams from the series. I just really like the part where she says "Welcome to the jun-gle". https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujkW_0pCyjw 
> 
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